


(Un)Pleasant

by YamiTami



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Harmlessly Glowing Rain, I Apologize to the Sheriff's Secret Police, I Fluffed and then I Accidentally Angst, M/M, Metallic Livestock, Panic Attacks, Serious Talks, Umbrellas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiTami/pseuds/YamiTami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil does his civic duty and protects the dryness of Carlos's hair. Carlos gives Cecil the wrong idea multiple times. The person or entity listening from the plumbing is disappointed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Un)Pleasant

Carlos thought of himself as an intrepid fellow. Reasonably so, at least. He wasn't traipsing through rainforests where a moment of carelessness might result in a fish or parasite maiming him in deeply personal ways, and he wasn't in a pressurized claustrophobic sub straying so close to deep sea vents that the outer shell starts to melt, but he _was_ venturing into strange territory and he kept his wits about him even when things were decidedly... odd. Night Vale was... in spite of how many bizarre and horrifying things happened in the little desert town Carlos kept coming back to 'odd' when describing the little city in his notes. What other word could he use when the locals were so used to dimensional and temporal shifts, strange lights which join the PTA, and other such occurrences. When O.L.J., or Old Lady Josephine so named after the nickname given to her in the broadcasts which Carlos definitely did not listen to, spoke at length about angels it was hard to describe it in his dictations as anything other than 'odd'.

It was difficult, but Carlos persevered. He tried to, at least. It would have been one thing if he had gone to Night Vale on his own, but he had half a dozen other scientists in tow. He had to keep them calm when everything around them made no scientific sense, and if the disappearances of locals without any investigation was any indication, keeping ones head about them was probably a requirement for continued breathing. So Carlos did not listen to the radio and he did not take the advice about how to avoid ire from the sheriff’s secret police to heart and certainly did not make sure his staff followed the same instructions. Though the radio program kept losing interns Carlos hadn't lost a single scientist, which made him feel proud in an... odd way. He was waiting for that particular ax to fall but couldn't quite bring himself to leave the town, even though as project head he was surely the biggest target in the group.

So, he kept it together, even when the readings were insane and the locals even more so. He had to for the sake of his staff and for the sake of his project. There was clearly something in Night Vale, and if he was able to discover what exactly it was then it could revolutionize... actually, he wasn't sure what it would revolutionize anymore. But it would certainly revolutionize something.

Carlos managed very well, all odd things considered. But, sometimes...

The hooded figure was standing outside his apartment when he left for work. He didn't pay it any mind (do not look directly at the hooded figures), and when it started to vaguely follow him he resolutely didn't pay it any mind. While it sometimes took a firm tone to get his staff to leave other local 'traditions' alone, when it came to ignoring the hooded figures they were all on board with that. So out of long practice Carlos steadfastly refused to acknowledge the figure even when he reached the rented lab and the figure stopped directly across the street and stood there. Silent. And hooded. Carlos ignored it as hard as he could and went inside. Focusing on work would surely distract him from his walk-to-work shadow which probably definitely did not exist.

That plan was quickly shot in the head and buried in the dog park when the hooded figure stood outside the window closest to Carlos’s desk and projected staticy noises. At first Carlos thought there was interference on his radio (certainly not tuned in to a certain show’s frequency) but as it turned out it was the actual noise the actual non-existent hooded figure was producing. At least, Carlos assumed it was the hooded figure as he didn’t have the bravado to pull back the curtains and he wasn’t going to send any of his people to their deaths. He wasn’t sure if peeking out at a hooded figure would mean death but he didn’t want to risk it. Carlos’s mental state was not helped by the fact that he was very observant and noticed that the static would die down when one of his staff came close to the window and would increase in intensity and volume whenever he was alone in his little corner of the lab.

He refused to move to another part of the lab, though, on the grounds that he might have some problems with stubbornness when it came to unexplainable phenomenon and their attempts to frighten him away with terrifying static. That stubbornness was probably why he had been first considered for this particular project, why he had been selected as head for this particular project, and why he had actually wanted to be on this particular project. Carlos, at least, felt as though he was in good company. No one else on his staff had any significant self-preservation instinct to speak of when their curiosity was piqued. He was impressed when they all stayed through the creeping dread and the glowing cloud.

But the _static_. For whatever reason, it got to him.

By lunchtime Carlos found himself agitated and unwilling to deal with anything approximating static; he even turned their radio off. He maintained some foolish defiance and refused to circumvent the offending window for the most part but that steady sinisterly fuzzy noise was starting to wear on him. The whole thing—the town, the strange occurrences, the locals’ mix of apathy and terror—was starting to wear on him. When he left at the end of the day, which ended precisely eight and a third minutes earlier than it was supposed to, the hooded figure was waiting for him. It trailed along behind as Carlos walked a few blocks to the least bizarre grocer in the area to pick up coffee and rice flour bagels (completely free of wheat and wheat by-products), it trialed along behind as Carlos returned to the lab to drop off his purchasesw, and it trailed along behind as Carlos started for his apartment.

There’s really no shame in cowering underneath a statue of a horse. It was the one at the entrance of the non-dog non-forbidden park. The one that occasionally had six, ten, or fifteen legs. At the time of Carlos’s hiding it only had the normal four and he found himself mentally willing the statue to gain a set or two so that he’d have more cover. Of course, this was one of the few instances where the little city of Night Vale refused to be completely insane. Carlos wondered if the hooded figure canceled out the dimensional shift which he thought was responsible for phenomenon such as the variable leg horse statue. His hyperventilating was fogging over the recently polished bronze. Carlos considered the possibility that the number of apparent legs was somehow dependent upon the reflectivity of the statue surface. It could also be that the polishing compound residue, which would wear off due to the rain and other environmental factors, might also be part of the equation. Carlos examined his life and his choices.

“Hello?”

Carlos’s body made a spirited attempt to run before his mind could remind it about its current position under the belly of a sculptural animal. There was a hollow ringing sound. Carlos wasn’t sure if the ringing was coming from the cast bronze horse or from inside his own skull. He shuffled back all of a few inches and felt one of the statue’s legs digging into his back. Carlos was a grown man and a scientist besides and he refused to hide like a frightened child, but then his refusal to open his eyes and see the hooded figure which was certainly standing there ready to strike—

Carlos remembered that the hooded figures never speak.

Slowly, he lowered his hands and opened his eyes. A slim man with blond hair just a little too light to seem natural and blue eyes just a little too lavender to seem right stood there. He was a little taller than average and had to stoop slightly to see underneath the horse as the pedestal upon which it sat was only about ten centimeters tall. He wore a deep purple vest which brought out the color of his eyes in a somewhat disconcerting way, a pale green paisley tie with a slightly loosened knot, and a collared shirt of a very light gray with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His slacks were an unassuming shade of charcoal.

In the periphery of his field of vision Carlos could see the hooded figure standing a few meters away, unmoving.

“... Hello?” Carlos returned. The man raised an eyebrow. The stranger’s cheeks were flushed, but Carlos guessed the coloration was simply a result of pale skin meeting the desert heat, particularly when dressed in layers. Carlos knew he had seen this man somewhere before and there was this subtle feeling that he really should recognize the newcomer. He also had a subtle feeling that he should feel embarrassed for having been found hiding under a park decoration. However, his heart and, after the collision with the statue, his head were still pounding too hard for his brain’s memory retrieval system to work properly. It was like trying to retrieve a book from a library currently hosting a sold out rave.

“Are you... conducting an experiment?” The stranger asked. The sentence, though short, was quite a bit longer than the two syllable greeting and was enough for Carlos to recognize the man as Cecil Baldwin. Cecil Baldwin the host of the radio show which Carlos’s staff insisted on playing in the lab every day without fail. There were two in particularly who would turn up the volume anytime mention was made of ‘Carlos the Scientist’. They had a distressing tendency to giggle.

“Oh!” Carlos exclaimed. “You’re Cecil,” he added unnecessarily.

A displeased and almost hurt expression crossed Cecil’s features. Carlos recovered his ability to feel embarrassment and felt it doubly when he realized that Cecil was pouting because the odman cowering under the horse statue hadn’t recognized him.

“I mean, sorry, I didn’t realize it was you at first,” Carlos said in a rush. “The lighting isn’t so good, a-and I hear your voice more th-than I see you in person, so it just took me a se-second.”

Embarrassment reached dizzying heights in response to the stammer Carlos had always disliked, but Cecil didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Cecil’s expression turned from a pout to pleased.

“You listen to my show?” Cecil said in that slow, easy manner he had, though on the last couple of words he sort of squeaked a bit. Even so, Cecil’s voice had a calming effect. ‘Sonorous’ was a good adjective for it.

Carlos, unwilling to risk another unfortunate stammer at that moment, simply nodded. Cecil performed a complicated gesture involving the wringing of hands. It was _very_ awkward.

“Where are you heading off to?” asked that sonorous voice. Carlos noticed that Cecil was holding a simple black umbrella and that it was drizzling. It didn’t appear to be saltwater on that particular day. Or oil. Or blood. Just plain old rain, aside of course from the fact that it was faintly glowing. The drops ceased to admit weak green light as soon as they hit the ground, so it was the variety of glowing rain which was safe as far as anyone knew.

Carlos swallowed hard. “I was going home,” he said slowly and carefully to avoid misspeaking.

Cecil nodded and continued to act as though nothing particularly strange was going on. He was standing in the rain having a stilted conversation with a man who was experiencing a panic attack while hiding under metallic livestock... actually, Carlos considered, that wasn’t strange at all for Night Vale. The only sign that Cecil was uncomfortable, aside from the perfectly normal and sadly unavoidable social awkwardness, was that particular expression that Carlos knew meant that someone was trying very hard not to look at something. It was a common look in Night Vale. Sometimes it was directed—or rather, _not_ directed—at a member of the sheriff’s secret police, or the glow cloud, or a supposed angel, or the man in the tan jacket with the deerskin suitcase, or a hooded figure. Carlos assumed that Cecil was not looking at the hooded figure, as it would be situated in Cecil’s line of vision if it had remained where it was when Carlos felt his chest grow impossibly tight and took refuge under the shiny statue.

“I could walk with you,” Cecil said, slightly less slow and easy than was his norm. “So your hair doesn’t get wet.”

Carlos stared.

“I mean, that is, we could share the umbrella!” Cecil’s voice was significantly higher than his usual radio mellow. He’d also lost most of his eloquence, which Carlos had always found impressive in spite of himself. It’s not that he _disliked_ Cecil, in fact, it was nice to have at least one Night Vale resident who was willing to listen to warnings even if said resident didn’t take them seriously. Carlos couldn’t really blame Cecil for that, though, given what constituted a ‘normal’ day in the little city. It’s just that Carlos didn’t feel entirely comfortable getting to know any of the locals on a personal level for fear of what avenues of destruction that would invite.

On the more mundane planes of uncomfortable there was the, well, frankly _obvious_ crush. Carlos was somewhat of a stereotypical geek, what with his glasses and his tendency to ramble about his work and his general social awkwardness, and that made romance a bit... cumbersome, at times. He hadn’t even realized exactly what that was all about until a couple of his staff, the ones who giggled, clued him in after he told them about the call he made where he asked Cecil to tell everyone about the time distortion. Once the crush had been pointed out, and everyone on staff had ceased all activity to listen to Cecil’s account of the phone call in the next day’s broadcast, Carlos could hardly deny it. In fact, he couldn’t stop being hyperaware of it.

Cecil was fidgeting, but the hooded figure seemed to be keeping its distance, and Cecil had survived his brush with contract negotiations, and maybe the figures were fans of the show, and Carlos wondered if this counted as leading Cecil on if Cecil was content being led on no matter what happened and Carlos rubbed his head. Between the stress and his involuntary attempt to concuss himself he had the start of a serious headache.

Carlos felt horribly guilty, but he stumbled up out from under the statue and joined Cecil under the umbrella. Those just slightly off eyes beamed and he bounced a bit where he stood. Carlos felt even more guilty. He resolved to have a serious talk with Cecil during the walk. The two of them set off down the street, the soft patter of raindrops on the fabric of the umbrella and the soft thuds of their footfalls were the only sound as Carlos worked up the courage to speak up. The hooded figure was probably still following them, but neither of them looked over their shoulders to check. Instead Cecil kept glancing at Carlos and then looking away just as quickly while Carlos mostly stared at his hands or his feet.

“So!”

Carlos’s body attempted to do an encore of its collision with the statue. Luckily the umbrella was farther away from his head and was not of a material as likely to cause lasting cranial damage. Cecil came very close to dropping the umbrella but after a few seconds of precarious fumbling he got a solid grip back on it. Only a few drops of rain had landed on Carlos’s glasses in the meantime; the drops were clear and did not etch through the lenses. Cecil swallowed audibly and tried again.

“Ssssssso... how’s the... science going?”

Cecil winced and made an aborted gesture that probably would have ended with him burying his face in his hand. Carlos came very close to saying ‘neat’ but he physically bit his tongue to keep the word from escaping. It wasn’t really Cecil’s fault that he was so _odd_ , and it was somewhat comforting that Cecil was behaving strangely for reasons that had nothing to do with secrets and distortions and a lack of real clocks. This was a sort of strange Carlos could handle. Well, mostly. At the very least, it probably wouldn’t send him spiraling into a panic attack on a public street.

“It’s going...” Carlos’s neck was starting to ache from the tension of not looking over his shoulder, “... well. It’s going well.”

“That’s really great!”

They had arrived at the front steps of Carlos’s apartment. Cecil looked at the door—on this particular day it was blue, and if the pattern held then in the morning it would be yellow—as though it was the most horrible thing that he had ever seen. Carlos breathed a quiet sigh of relief when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hooded figure continue down the street. With steadier hands than he’d had all day Carlos got out his keys and opened the door, so lost in habit that he momentarily forgot about his decision to talk to Cecil about the crush.

It wasn’t until the words left his mouth that Carlos realized what, “Would you like to come inside?” sounded like. The guilty feeling, already oppressive, grew even heavier. Callousness about the mysterious and dangerous happenings around town aside, Cecil wasn’t at all a bad guy. Carlos didn’t like accidentally leading anyone on, but he definitely didn’t like doing it to decent people. Or mostly decent people. He didn’t like doing it to Cecil.

The apartment was a good size for a single man living alone, with decent furniture bought at second hand stores and a new microwave. Carlos had never gotten around to buying a dining room set and his morning mug and breakfast bowl were still sitting on the coffee table. Embarrassed, Carlos hastily swept them up and set the dishes in the sink, running water into both to loosen the coffee stains and congealed oatmeal residue. Once that was done he turned and tried to figure out what he was supposed to say to the man absorbed in the task of figuring out where to put his closed umbrella.

Carlos walked over and took the umbrella from Cecil and set it in the corner by the door. Cecil blushed red when their hands brushed in the exchange. Carlos was not looking forward to this conversation. Particularly when the broadcaster was looking so vulnerable and, well, _human_.

“Cecil, I think we need to talk about this.”

The quiet tone didn’t leave much room at all for rose colored glasses, and Cecil’s face fell accordingly. Carlos ran a nervous hand through his hair and then took a seat on the couch. Cecil shuffled over and, after a moment where it looked as though he’d sit down right next to Carlos, sat down against the opposite arm. Carlos stared at the wall.

“Look, it’s just... I feel as though I’ve been leading you on and I don’t, I mean, I didn’t mean to do that—“

“Is it something I said? Oh, uhg, it’s probably how I go silly when I talk to you and go on and on like a complete idiot. Like now! Oh dear, I can’t stop.”

The end of that was muffled as Cecil’s face was buried in his hands. His ears were red.

“No, no, no, it’s not that. You’re... well, you’re actually pleasant to be around.”

Cecil peeked out from between his fingers.

“It’s just... this is so hard to put into words!” Carlos rubbed his temples and tugged at the graying locks—how Cecil could claim he had perfect hair escaped him—before growling low in frustration. “Errrg. I just don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“Why is it the wrong idea?” Cecil was pouting again. It was distracting. “Why can’t we be pleasant around each other more often? We’ve only gone out for coffee a couple times, and never to dinner, and not that I don’t always enjoy your talk about science and your dire warnings, but would it be so bad if we could talk about something that _wasn’t_ work? Don’t... do you not find me pleasant in non-work related ways?”

Cecil’s odd eyes were so wide and his tone so plaintive and there was a dusting of freckles across his nose and... workless pleasantness was not a problem.

That’s what made this all the harder.

“Look, it’s not, no, it’s just.” Carlos considered slamming his head down on the coffee table, it’s not as though he wasn’t on a streak with head injuries on that particular day. “I’m not interesting, and I forget to call if I’m working late, and I’m inattentive and it doesn’t even have anything to do with how pleasant or unpleasant I find someone but I just get so caught up in my work... it wouldn’t work out. You’d get bored of me soon enough.”

It wasn’t until Carlos actually _said_ it that he understood his own hesitance. While Cecil had his strangeness it was a benign sort, relatively speaking. Carlos didn’t think that Cecil meant him any harm. But Carlos knew how he was and he knew how that usually went and given how much more obsessed he was with his work and how much more distracted he had grown what with all the stress he was under... he wouldn’t be a very good boyfriend.

“You deserve better than that,” Carlos said firmly. It was cruel, but if he looked at Cecil’s crestfallen face for a moment longer there’d be a comforting hug involved and Carlos was through with leading Cecil on.

Carlos stood and Cecil followed him. Without a word from either of them Carlos picked up the umbrella, Cecil took the offered light precipitation protection device, and walked out the door as Carlos held it open. The latch shut with a click. The rain still glowed. Carlos sagged against the wall.

He thought he heard a disappointed sigh emanating from the kitchen sink.


End file.
